Begin Again
by Jessahme Wren
Summary: The last scene of "The Good Samaritan Killer" (1x11) from Red's perspective. They finally meet, but a lot has changed. Chapter 2: Liz's perspective. A fill-in-the-gaps story leading up to the opening scene of "The Alchemist" (1x12). Red stays and has wine! *clutches chest*
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I started not to write this; so many beautiful stories have already been done. I'm still working out my feels, though, and writing is cathartic. Also, I may have taken some liberties with the layout of Liz's house, and I can't hide behind the AU designation with this one. Bear with me.

Also, I am jessahmewren on Tumblr. Please check out my blog at jessahmewren dot tumblr dot com.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Blacklist or any of those beautiful words in 1x11. Just taking them out to play.

-0-0-0-

Red stood under a dull street lamp in the thick dark outside her house, looking at her through the window. There were few lights on inside, and her silhouette moved in and out of the ambient darkness of the house until he could only make out the pale outline of her hand as it rested against her forehead.

He flexed his hands at his side and waited. There was no one on the street; Dembe had dropped him off with instructions to return in twenty minutes.

He approached the door and stood on the welcome mat. He had the lock picked within seconds. Red had never made a key to Lizzie's house; even with all of the liberties he had admittedly taken with her personal space, it seemed somehow inappropriate. When she welcomed him in that way it would be on her terms, not his.

The lock whispered free and he opened the door without a creak. He stood in the narrow foyer, his polished shoes shining in the dark, and listened.

She made no sound. The house was as still and quiet as if it were empty.

Red took a step forward, not really sure how he would approach her or why he was even there. He caught his reflection in the wall mirror and adjusted his tie, smoothed the collar of his latest pinstripe shirt. He had not reconnected with his old tailor upon returning, and the suit was not quite to his standards, but it would have to do. It was the first time he'd truly dressed in weeks.

Red put his hands against the table below the mirror and closed his eyes. The cool tabletop felt good against his palms, and for the first time since their phone conversation he felt centered. He could see their faces still-Grey, the others. He saw Grey most of all.

But he did not feel remorse. He felt betrayal. He blinked away the sting of it, took a deep breath, and walked into her living room.

"Thank you for coming back. I don't wanna fight Tom let's just talk-"

He turned into the thin sound of her pleading voice and looked at her. She stood before him, her mouth slightly agape. Her eyes were wide and blank with shock.

"Tom's at the airport." _And probably on a plane to Nebraska by now_, he thought. It satisfied him.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

She still stood facing him, her body rigid. The only movement was the slight parting of her lips, then closing again, as if she'd forgotten how to breathe.

"How did things go with your case?"

He watched her as she closed her lips once more, finally remembering to inhale through her nose.

"Congratulations, I'm proud of you."

She looked at him a moment more, and then she _saw_ him. She saw that it was Red, that he was standing in her house and what that meant. She saw him and her face changed.

He knew then why he was there. He had been so focused, so intent on plugging the leaks, on exacting personal vengeance, that he had forgotten the way she made him feel.

She stepped forward, motioning to him in one fluid step to sit, and he did so-on her couch and on her terms. He settled onto the couch that belonged there, but not to her; among the wall art and throw pillows and decorative plants that were pieces in a facade at an interior design floorshow, a trendy fusion of modern and vintage suburban bliss. She dwelled among these things hoping to believe the lie they represented, but they were not hers.

Liz settled in the chair across from him, her eyes no longer bearing the numb shock of his initial appearance. In its place, traces of hopefulness. "Does this mean you're back?"

He shook his head dismissively. "I dunno."

It was a loaded question. So much had changed. After all he had endured he had long thought he was impervious to change, but the death of Luli and the betrayal of Grey had shaken him. Not to mention the call...the phone call that had needled him for so many weeks.

"My house is clean. But yours...is not."

She looked at him deeply, somewhat stricken. He surmised that she might have thought then of his warning, of the enemy with whom she shared her bed. _No Lizzie, your house is not clean at all,_ he wanted to say. _Not at all. _

"What does that mean?"

"The deficit that I found in my organization could not have supplied all the knowledge required for the incursion to take place. That would've been supplied by someone with far greater access."

She nodded. "Someone on the inside."

"It would seem so." He looked away, realizing he had missed the stability of their relationship, the way they were before. He looked at her, a small, almost wistful half-smile at the corner of his mouth.

"Therefore, we're back where we began. Me speaking with you."

Watching the relief bloom on her face was like watching a sunrise. Her eyes first, and then her lovely mouth followed suit by fading into a soft smile. He could see that she had missed this too.

"Well then. Welcome back." She looked at him, bemused. "Where have you been, anyway?"

He gave a huff of a laugh; the blood on his hands of late denied him further mirth. "Out and about."

She smiled. "Did you bring me anything?"

So she had enjoyed her treat from Cuba, after all. She'd never mentioned it. His laugh was as black as a tomb, and he said nothing at first. Lizzie didn't want any mementos from his recent travels, he thought darkly. None at all.

"Yes," he finally said. "The next name on the Blacklist."

She nodded, then set her mouth in a firm line and seemed to close down some. He sensed the change immediately, but did not attempt to dissuade her.

Whether he admitted it or not, things were different. They had been different, at least for him, ever since she'd asked him that wretched question.

Logically, he understood. He knew why she would've asked him that; she was so desperate to make a connection, to have someone, and she had just lost Sam. In the saga of her life the romantic lead was already cast, but there was an opening for a father figure. He got it. But it had affected him all the same.

The only thing that kept him from completely obsessing over it was the staunch belief that she didn't look at him that way. That she couldn't.

"Are you ok Red?" She was looking at him curiously, and the line of her mouth had softened.

He didn't understand, so he merely looked at her.

"I don't know what he did to you," she said quietly. "I mean, who took care of you?"

_Ah. Anslo._ He worked his mouth, finally ciphering her meaning. "I took care of myself, Lizzie. Like I've always done."

She looked like it pained her, and her eyes were moist. They had darkened to sapphire and seemed to absorb the light.

"I tried to find you," she said. "Mr. Kaplan and I-"

"Lizzie." He said it a little more forcefully than he intended, but he wouldn't sit there and watch her shoulder more blame. She did that enough.

"That was my doing," he said simply. "Anslo Garrick came there for me." His eyes lost their steel set, influenced by the warmth of hers, and his voice deepened. "Put you in danger...because of me."

For several moments they simply looked at each other, and he watched the inner conflict as it played out on her face.

"You saved my life Red."

He recognized it was a statement, not a realization. It was a maxim she was well acquainted with, had ruminated on many times.

"Yes," he said simply.

"You gave your life for mine." Her voice was strong, but her eyes were slightly clouded, as if even now she found it hard to understand.

"Yes."

She set her mouth, never looking from his face.

"You should've let me die."

It struck him as palpably as if someone had delivered him a physical blow. He looked at her, his ears ringing, and he narrowed his eyes.

"What did you say?"

She stood then, turning away from him. "You're too valuable," she said flatly. "Anslo could have killed you." She turned to face him and she had tears in her eyes. "And what then Red? How many hundreds, thousands of people would've died because of the people on that list of yours that we didn't catch?"

He stood, but did not cross to her. He held his fedora at his side as if prepared to leave. Indeed, Dembe was probably already outside. "You're worth more than any list," he said quietly. He thought of Frederick Barnes. _Burn down the world..._

Her eyes flamed, and a few tears streaked unbidden down her face. "You don't get to decide that!"

He only looked at her. "I do, though," he said. He gave a sardonic little smile and then met her dark eyes. "My list, my rules."

She looked at him, then down at her hands. "Is that what this is to you Red? A game?"

He said nothing. He crossed to her and looked at her fully. When she had calmed, when the blush had receded from her cheeks and her breathing was even, he leaned in close.

"Is it so unthinkable that I would give my life for you Lizzie," he inquired in her ear. "Surely by now you must know how I feel. Or do you still believe I'm your father?"

She turned away from him, embarrassed. "I know you're not my father," she said miserably. He gave her time, allowing the shame to burn out of her face. He touched her elbow and gently steered her toward him.

"Because I told you so?"

She followed his smooth voice up to look into his eyes. In the dark pupils she could see herself mirrored in the depths.

"No," she breathed. "Not because you told me."

He smiled and brushed his thumb over her elbow, through her clothes. His warm fingers encircled her arm, and she leaned into his touch.

They could start over, he thought. Begin again. With the air clear and with no misunderstandings. It eased some of his earlier disquiet.

"I'll be going now," he said.

He broke the contact and it shook her awake. She nodded numbly, watched as he palmed the fedora and flipped it smoothly onto his head in one graceful movement. He left her there, staring after him as the door swung shut on the first meeting of their new partnership.

-0-0-0-

This is stubbornly from Red's perspective, but I would be open to doing a Liz chapter ala "Reflections" if time and muse allows. That may not be necessary. As always, I would love to know what you think. :)


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks to the lovely selinabln (selinabln dot tumblr dot com) for making me realize the true importance of that opening scene in 1x12. He stayed. He stayed! This is my take on what might have happened.

-0-0-0-

The now-empty room seemed to gape around her as she struggled to process the brief meeting. She looked down at her arm where his fingers had been only moments before, standing in this room where he had materialized and had just as quickly disappeared.

She was at the door in seconds. She didn't think; she didn't need to. All she knew was that he couldn't leave. He'd just come back and he couldn't leave.

"Red!"

He was standing at the car, his hand on the rear door handle and his back to her. His shoulders straightened at the sound of his name and he slowly turned, the exhaust from the vehicle fogging around him, obscuring him momentarily from view.

Liz stood in the open door, filling the space he'd just occupied. It was cold, and her breath came in little white puffs that lingered in front of her face. In the trip from the living room to the front door, she thought he might already be gone.

Her eyes were slightly wide and her lips were parted. She gestured openly with her hand, a stilted social grace, and met his inquisitive gaze.

"You could stay awhile," she said simply.

He regarded her from under the brim of his fedora, his face a storm of emotions. "I hadn't planned on it."

She nodded, closing her lips and licking them nervously. The gesturing hand dropped, but the other one went up to lightly clutch the door facing.

"I hadn't planned on seeing you," she said quietly.

Something nondescript shifted in his face, and his mouth twitched once.

She looked at him, her face open and pale under the full moon. She stood to the side, gesturing through the open door, making a space for him. "Please."

He gave a quick, slight nod as if affirming something unspoken. _What would she have done differently had she known I was coming_, he thought to himself. It pleased him, and he allowed himself the momentary fantasy of her preparations. Finally, he patted the roof of the car and Dembe drove away into the night.

He stood where he had earlier, in the street looking at her house in the dark. Only she knew he was there this time, and she welcomed him into her home like she would have done before, had he given her the opportunity.

She'd been holding her breath, awaiting his response. As he returned the way he came, walking up the small path to her door again, her lips curled into a half smile and she exhaled.

He said nothing as he slipped inside, and when he walked into the small foyer he found himself thinking of her as he had before, with some measure of disconnect, when he had waited in the dark, listening while she was still unaware of his presence.

The door shut loudly and he turned at the sound. She'd pressed it closed with her body, her arms behind her and her eyes locked fully on his form as if he were an apparition that might dissolve into mist if she looked away.

She stepped toward him, thinking of what to say.

"Can I get you anything?"

Her voice sounded small to her ears, unsure and alien, but it was still louder than the voice inside her that wondered why she had called him back. That one was stubbornly quiet.

Red shook is head quickly, but remained curiously silent. He had that slightly broken expression from before, and there was a gloom of darkness around him that he shouldered like a coat.

"Red."

She spoke his name aloud, half in wonderment and half to wake him from whatever dream of his her presence interfered with. Slowly she stepped into the space between them, and then again. She finally stood before him, looking at the top button of his shirt.

She wrapped her arms around him gently as if he might break, and pressed her body against his clothes as if to leach the night's cold from him. She could feel the wiry tension in his shoulders almost quiver beneath her hands.

She had not anticipated his response, nor hers, but the realization of his return overwhelmed her momentarily, and her eyes fluttered closed. She exhaled against him, and the small sound seemed to wake him from his stupor because she was encircled by his body almost instantly.

While her embrace had been somewhat hesitant, his was not. His arms wound around her tightly, as if he suddenly realized she was there. He crushed her against him, his warm palm flat against her back and his fingers white with pressure where they pressed into her ribs. She wondered briefly if he might be aware of his own strength, but she did no push away from him.

After the initial shock, she relaxed in his arms. She could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against her body as the turbulent tide within him appeared to recede. He dipped his head into her shoulder and his stubble whispered across her cheek, causing her to shiver. He sighed, haltingly and a little uneven.

It was then she realized that he was not so much holding her but holding on to her.

His hand went up to her hair, and he smoothed it gently where it lay against her back. He released her then, and she felt his absence as if he'd never returned. His eyes shone like polished jade in the low light, warm but muted by some unspoken emotion.

Her hands were still on him, and she squeezed lightly at his shoulder, moved her hand up to the smooth column of his neck as if validating that he was real. The angry little scar, not very old, stood rigidly against his skin, and she viewed it with wonder. It was not unlike her own.

"I was so worried about you," she said quietly. Her fingers traced the scar, remembering suddenly being in the back of that ambulance and wondering which one of them would die first.

"I know." His voice was low and a little apologetic. _Red would feel guilt_, she thought sadly, _over something he had no control of._

She withdrew her hand, somewhat embarrassed by her transparency. She averted her eyes, avoiding the slow burn of his gaze and the realization of the way her touch had thawed him, body and mind.

"Can I take your coat? Get you some wine?"

He looked at her and smiled, allowing her to retreat into the comfort of hospitality. "Wine would be nice," he said.

He turned and shrugged out of his coat easily. He gave her his hat as well, and while his back was turned she let her fingers skate across the band.

He did not sit, but he moved more comfortably into the interior of the room, inspecting the wall hangings with polite interest.

She had one really nice bottle of wine, something she and Tom had been saving for their anniversary for the last two years_. _She always had to work, and most of their celebrations ended in warmed-over dinner and the monologue of some late night comedian. She'd forgotten about the wine until now.

She withdrew it from its hiding place and dusted the label. _Château Montrose 1989_. She remembered when she bought it; she had felt so affluent.

"Do you need any help?"

She followed his voice into the living room and found him on the couch, his legs crossed and one arm on the back of the chair.

"No, I'm fine. Thanks," she said tightly as she struggled with the cork. She finally released it with a hollow pop and poured them both a glass.

She handed him his and settled at the end of the couch opposite him.

Liz turned and watched Red appreciate the wine. In the times they had supped together, she enjoyed this the most. He did not do it obnoxiously like the couples that she and Tom often dined with, novice foodies desperate to impress. Red actually appreciated it and he didn't care who was watching.

After holding it up to the light, he swirled it under his nose and took an experimental sip. His eyes brightened. "This is lovely, Lizzie." He pursed his lips. "Montrose?"

She nodded, pleased with her little splurge. "'89."

He nodded appreciatively. "What's the occasion?"

She looked at him, her chin slightly lifted, a soft smile on her lips. "Your return," she said quietly.

A little muscle in his jaw twitched as he looked at her. She had one leg flat against the couch so she could better face him, and she had kicked off her shoes. Her liquid eyes were warm and fixed on him.

For several moments of relaxed silence they simply looked at each other, neither one believing the other one was there.

Lizzie raised her glass to her lips, but he thwarted her movement with the lightest touch to her knee where it lay crooked on the couch toward him. She looked down at the little touch, then up into his face, the wine glass still poised in front of her mouth and her eyes full of questions.

He withdrew his hand and straightened a little on the couch.

"We have to toast."

She looked at him incredulously. "You're serious."

"Very. A wine this nice you have to toast. Now raise your glass Lizzie."

She held her glass dutifully between them, feeling a bit silly. Red cleared his throat and looked at her imperiously.

She expected a lesson on the history of wine, or a slightly tongue-in-cheek dedication to the FBI, or even an ode to Agent Ressler's boyish good looks, but she got none of those. His expression changed, and he looked at her meaningfully.

"To us."

She smiled, a little surprised. "To us," she said.

They drank in relative quiet. The wine was delicious. Liz was far from an aficionado, but the flavor profile was complex; it was crushed berries on her tongue with hints of wet leaves, leather, and chocolate afterward. Something about it reminded her of Red, and not just its color.

He was looking at a distant point somewhere in her kitchen, and she wondered where he had been all these weeks. What he had gone through.

"What happened to you Red?"

She knew she should move on, to stop dredging up his memories of the horrible experience with Anslo Garrick, but her world had stopped all those weeks ago. She'd thought of nothing but whether he was alive or dead, if he flourished or floundered. It was all very fresh.

He turned to look at her, his mouth relaxed. "It doesn't matter," he said flippantly. "Not any more."

She looked at him, a measure of anger rising at the disregard he had for his own well being, and she set her glass down on the coffee table.

"It matters to me, Red."

He started to say something, some words of protest, but he caught her gaze. The wine had given her eyes a little sparkle, some color in her cheeks, and she had one hand in her hair as she propped against the back of the couch. She was looking at him with such gentle entreaty that he forgot to breathe. He swallowed.

"Anslo was an errand boy sent on behalf of someone else to find me," he began. "He merely entertained himself with notions of my death until that person arrived."

Her eyes narrowed. "Who was that person?"

He pursed his lips, and when she realized he would say nothing else, she let the matter drop.

"It should never have happened," she said quietly. She wasn't looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on a distant point, her voice thin.

"It had to happen, Lizzie."

She turned to him, her voice stronger, more resolute. "No, it didn't. You have to stop doing that, Red. You have stop throwing yourself at death for my benefit."

Her eyes were dark, flecked with bits of silver, and she looked pained. He pressed his lips together and looked at her with that rare tenderness that usually made her uncomfortable.

"I will always do what I feel is necessary to keep you safe," he said, his voice raw and even deeper than usual.

His rote response did nothing to satisfy her. If anything, it raised even more questions.

"Why?"

His eyes flicked down to her mouth before returning her gaze. "You already know why," he said quietly.

She recalled their earlier conversation. "_Surely by now you must know how I feel." _She stood, feeling suddenly warm, and took a few steps toward the kitchen before deciding there was nothing there she needed.

She did know. There had been moments when the depth of his feelings would briefly surface-in a touch, a glance, or in a certain pregnant pause-forcing her to recognize them for what they were, _what they are_, and how they resembled some of her own.

"You broke your word to me."

He swallowed, struggling to discern her meaning. She turned to face him, her arms folded over her chest, and repeated herself.

"You said if I needed you that you would be there." She licked her lips nervously. "I've needed you every day you were gone, Red. Every day."

He stood, wine glass in hand, but he did not go to her. He wanted to, wanted to affirm his feelings for her in earnest, to smooth away the confusion that clouded her features, but she wasn't ready. She was just beginning to sort out the realization of his feelings for her and maybe coming to terms with some of her own.

"I'm sorry," he said honestly. "I never meant to hurt you."

She shook her head dismissively. "I'm not hurt," she said quickly. The truth was, she'd grown used to him, had grown dependent upon their relationship. For a person who took pride in their independence, it scared her.

"I'm just-" She sighed, frustrated at her inability to express herself, by her discomfort at doing so. Her hand hovered near her mouth as if she could form the words that her lips failed to provide.

"I've missed you," she said finally. She smiled, a bleak shadow of happiness, but her eyes were warm.

He took a few steps toward her, fixing her with his eyes, communicating hopefully what his touch could convey so much better had it been time.

"And I've missed you," he said thoughtfully. He smiled. "What have you been doing all these weeks, anyway?"

She quirked her mouth. "Pretending to look for you," she said.

He took a sip of his wine. "Pretending?"

She looked at him evenly. "If Raymond Reddington doesn't want to be found, he won't be."

His eyes twinkled. "I'm here now."

"You want to be here."

He looked at her humorously. "You insisted."

"Not initially."

"But ultimately."

She smiled, the familiar banter natural and welcome.

"But I am back," he said seriously, turning from her briefly to regard the painting over the fireplace. "And we've much to do, Lizzie, you and I. Much to do." He appeared lost in thought momentarily, and she looked after him. After several moments he turned to her, his face serious.

"There's someone I think you should find."

-0-0-0-

Complete? You tell me. As always, I would love to know what you think :).


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